by Walter Wager
“Want some more coffee?” Cavaliere asked.
“Do I look crazy?”
“Yeah, and damp too.”
Even with the air conditioning blowing steadily, it was hot in the closed truck as the afternoon sun beat down fiercely. The “remote” truck was parked some forty yards from the brothel, a block away from the house where the enemy was entrenched. Observers equipped with night scopes had reported sandbags inside two of the second-floor rooms and one on the third. That made Merlin’s scheme even more logical, for with such barricades the only place to take them was as they came out into the street.
Four of the screens showed views of different parts of the street near number 53, and that was because four of the cameras installed before dawn were focused that way. A fifth was aimed at the front of the house, and the sixth at the rear.
“Sweep,” Merlin said to the engineer seated three feet to his left.
The technician began to turn dials, and the first camera started a slow horizontal pan. After it swung about forty degrees to scan the three houses to the right of number 53, he adjusted another knob to move the lens higher and search the upper floors. Camera One was zeroed in on the front of number 53, and the excellent image got even better when Merlin ordered “Zoom.”
“Okay?” the engineer asked.
“Okay. Now the next one.”
It was the ninth sweep since noon, and Angelo Cavaliere was bored. He knew that these scans and tests were necessary, but he found himself increasingly impatient with the process. No point in mentioning this to Merlin, who seemed completely fascinated as each camera covered and re-covered its observation zone.
“Thanks, Irv,” Merlin told the engineer, whose Rolling Stone T-shirt looked odd with the shoulder holster and peaked baseball cap. He told people that he always wore it because it was his “lucky” hat, but everyone suspected that the real purpose was to cover his bald spot.
“Communications check.”
“You’re on, Merl.”
“This is Charlie Leader to Charlie One. Do you read me?”
“Charlie One—loud and clear,” Roosevelt Allison replied. The rest of the Band called in from their concealed positions, and then Merlin spoke to Captain Rodriguez.
“Charlie Leader to Baker Leader. Give me a flight report.”
“Patrol on assigned flight plan. Twenty-four thousand feet. All our birds are healthy and happy, Charlie Leader.”
“How’s your visibility?”
Merlin could see it in his mind’s eye, the shooters in their lofty perches peering through their sniper scopes. Each of their worlds had a diameter of three-quarters of an inch, divided into four by cross hairs.
“Visibility fine up here,” Rodriguez assured.
“Roger, Charlie Leader. Over and out.”
Cavaliere thought it sounded silly, like one of those dumb cop shows on TV with lots of high-speed auto chases and handsome young method actors named Kent and Gregg. Merlin must have been thinking along the same lines, for he immediately checked the CIA cars and trucks to make certain that they were in position and ready to roll. Then he looked at his watch.
It was 3:49 P.M.—and no sign of activity.
“Anybody want to split a braunschweiger on pumpernickel, huh?” the engineer asked.
“With mustard?”
“No mustard, Angie.”
“Never mind,” replied Cavaliere, who wasn’t hungry anyway.
Irving Sherman—who was always hungry but blessed with a marvelous metabolism—shrugged, and took one big bite.
“Hey,” he said with his mouth full.
It wasn’t the sandwich. He’d seen what Merlin and Cavaliere had—the front door of number 53 was opening. He glanced up at the row of photos taped to the wall above the screens, read aloud, “Grawitz.”
“Stand by. This is Charlie Leader. Wheelman’s on his way out, maybe more,” Merlin advised.
Paul Grawitz was the specialist who stole and drove cars for the terrorists, so it made sense for him to emerge first to bring up their vehicle. He studied the street as he paused to light a cigarette, and then he nodded to someone inside who stepped out to join him. It was Fritz Kammler, the deserter who served as the Lietzen-Stoller weapons expert.
“He’s got company, and they’re heading toward Charlie Three.”
“I see ’em,” Budge reported.
“Hold your water, Charlie Three. Let’s see where they’re flying. Mobile surveillance, pick ’em up at the corner.”
“In my sights,” one of the shooters announced in a matter-of-fact voice.
“No way. That’s an order.”
“You’re the boss, Charlie Leader.”
Grawitz and Kammler walked north two blocks—right past one of the CIA trucks—and then turned west. A rooftop observer reported that they got into a gray BMW, and nine minutes later one of the “mobile observers” radioed that Grawitz had stolen a blue VW van.
“Heading back your way, Charlie Leader. They keep looking around and taking extra turns—checking for company.”
Merlin ordered another surveillance unit to leapfrog the first, and a dozen minutes later the gray car and the blue van cruised into view of Camera Five. Some forty seconds after that Captain Rodriguez radioed in an even more interesting position report.
“They’re only a block and a half from you, Charlie Leader, and they’re heading your way.”
Irving Sherman reached down for his bulletproof vest, strapped it on and then donned a steel infantryman’s helmet—all in thirty seconds.
“You nervous, Irv?” Cavaliere asked as he handed the engineer an M-42 submachine gun.
“Certainly not. Just don’t want to catch a cold.”
Merlin swiveled in his chair, pointed the Uzi at the rear door.
“They’ve stopped right behind you—dead stop, maybe fifteen yards away.”
“Thank you, Baker Leader,” Merlin acknowledged.
Still facing the back door, he spoke to the engineer. “Still got that half-sandwich, Irv?”
Gordon passed the food to him, and Merlin ate it with one hand while the other pointed his automatic weapon at the rear portal. “Would’ve been better with mustard,” he said as he chewed the last bits and stifled a belch.
Son of a bitch hadn’t even said thanks.
“Thanks anyway,” Merlin added suddenly, and then Rodriguez told them the terrorists had driven on at last. The engineer put down his machine gun and Merlin reached for the half-carton of bitter liquid.
“Thought you didn’t want any coffee,” Cavaliere said.
“I don’t.”
Merlin sipped, scowled at the taste.
There they were. The two vehicles slowed in front of number 53, halted. Kammler remained at the wheel of the car, but Grawitz climbed out of the van and opened its rear door. He waved at Kammler, who hit the horn of the BMW twice.
“This is it. Charlie Leader to both flights. I think this is it. Let’s go, Freddy.”
Down at the corner, a woman appeared pushing a baby carriage slowly toward the van. Now the door of number 53 opened, and two men emerged carrying a large straw hamper. One of them was a stranger Merlin had never seen, but the face of the other was familiar. It was Werner Buerckel, the demolition expert.
She was almost surely in the hamper, but where the hell was Willi Lietzen?
What about Marta Falkenhausen and the wounded Lange woman? Were they staying behind?
“Charlie Leader to Baker flight. Keep those goddam windows covered. I don’t want any surprises. Watch your step, Freddy—don’t move too close.”
The BND agent, who had a headset under her wig and a transmitter in her bra, answered immediately. “I’m moving as slowly as I can.” She stopped, leaned down to fuss with the “baby.”
As Buerckel and the other man neared the van, Marta Falkenhausen and Lietzen stepped out into the sunlight. The wary terrorist chief glanced up and down the street, started toward the car—and froze. He stared up at the r
oof of number 44, and Merlin sensed that Lietzen had spotted one of the army marksmen.
“Seal off the street. Go,” he ordered.
Trucks and cars idling a block or two away roared into gear, raced toward their assigned blocking positions. Lietzen shouted something, pointed. The other terrorists grabbed for their weapons.
“Open fire! All Charlie and Baker units, open fire!”
One of the shooters put two bullets into Paul Grawitz, the first in his stomach and the second opening his throat with a gush of red. Another drilled Werner Buerckel through the chest, spinning him back against a parked car. The explosives specialist wasn’t done. Only half-dead, he groped for the two sticks of dynamite he’d fashioned into a bomb and fumbled to untape the contact detonator. He was weaving as he struggled to heave it, but moving targets had never been a problem for Country Binks. His first round killed Buerckel, who fell atop his charge.
That’s when it exploded, blasting chunks of Werner Buerckel two hundred feet in all directions. One piece almost hit Rodriguez on the roof of number 40, but the captain ignored the distraction and kept shooting. Everyone else was too. Lietzen and Budge were exchanging fire at almost point-blank range. When the Californian stood up just a bit for a better shot, Marta Falkenhausen got off a round that shattered Budge’s right forearm.
Kammler tramped on the BMW’s gas pedal, and Merlin computed instantly. There was a chance—just a small chance—that the fast luxury car could blitz through the intersection before the heavy truck plugged that exit.
“Take him, Rosie!” he shouted.
Roosevelt Allison stepped out of an alley between two houses, pointed his antitank weapon and fired. The rocket demolished the front of the car, setting it ablaze. Another vehicle—only a few feet from Buerckel’s explosion—was already burning fiercely. Merlin could see all this quite clearly on his six screens.
The trucks were finally in place at both ends of the block, but the terrorists weren’t about to yield. Another man, who looked vaguely Arab, inched out of the back door. He had a Walther MPK submachine gun stolen from a West German military depot, and a determination to leave this part of the city. A blast from Jesse McAlester’s shotgun tore away his weapon and an impressive number of ligaments and blood vessels.
A bullet from somewhere gouged the sidewalk beside Allison as he crawled toward number 53, and then another slug hit Luther Lartensen right in the gut. He fell, and if it hadn’t been for his body armor he’d never have risen. As it was, he had a pain in his belly, most of the wind knocked out of him and a terrible desire to hurt whoever had shot him.
He never got the chance.
The enemy marksman in the third-floor window leaned forward to find another target, and became one. Three of the crack U.S. Army shooters saw the movement and the glint of the gun, and they all opened fire simultaneously. Karla Lange slumped forward, swayed and fell to the street. Merlin saw the impact a moment before Lietzen and the Falkenhausen woman threw their gas grenades. Acrid clouds bloomed abruptly, and now they were nowhere on any of the screens.
“Can you see them, Freddy?” Merlin called out urgently.
She was the nearest to them, but not near enough.
“No, but I’ll move in,” she replied.
Merlin leaped to his feet, grabbed up his Uzi.
“Call the meat wagon, Angie—and take over!”
Before Cavaliere could answer, Merlin was out of the “remote” truck and into the battle. He dog-trotted toward the alley beside the brothel, the brick-walled passage through the block to the street where the fighting raged. As he approached the mouth of the alley, he looked ahead and didn’t see Lietzen step out from between two cars behind him. The terrorist chief raised his gun to shoot Merlin in the back, took careful aim—
“Willi!” someone shouted from the alley.
He spun in reflex reaction, catching the blast from Freddy Cassel’s shotgun full in the face. His weapon clattered to the sidewalk as his hands flew to his ruined face. He was screaming, half-blind and in serious need of about $25,000 worth of plastic surgery. Merlin watched as she walked slowly toward the wounded terrorist, and he saw her reload the empty chamber. When she was some eight feet from Lietzen, she spoke.
“In the name of the Federal Republic, I arrest—”
His rush at her—the hopeless lunge of a crazed animal—ended her legal remarks. Her shotgun ended Willi Lietzen, two rounds at eight feet. He was literally thrown up on top of an elegant Porsche, dying all over the $13,000 vehicle parked only twenty minutes earlier by one of the brothel patrons.
At the other end of the passage, Marta Falkenhausen had found a hostage. She’d seized the abandoned carriage, seen the baby and guessed that the infant might be her ticket to freedom. They wouldn’t dare risk the kid’s life. She pushed the carriage for about twenty-five feet, suddenly stopped. The shooters staring down saw her raise her hands. They laughed.
The midget in the carriage kept his .38 pointed precisely between her eyes. Little Lou looked odd in the baby garb, but the way he handled the pistol left no doubt as to his ability to shoot professionally. She began to curse him, and she was still swearing when two members of the Band disarmed her. By this time Merlin and Freddy had pushed through the tear gas to the straw hamper.
She had to be inside.
Was she dead or alive?
He jerked up the lid, looked down at a very attractive black graduate of Yale. Her wrists, ankles and mouth were all taped and her clothes were a mess. Her skirt was up well above her knees, exposing saucy, candy-striped bikini panties. She appeared to be unhurt, for no woman who’d been injured would have eyes like that. He lifted her out of the hamper, felt her shaking in his arms. After holding her for several moments, he realized the impropriety and removed the tape from her lips as painlessly as possible.
“I knew it was you!” she accused.
“You okay?” he asked as he tugged at the tape on her wrists.
“Soon as I heard all that goddam shooting, I knew it was you! Oh, my God!”
The scene she surveyed was undoubtedly disturbing. Two cars were burning and a number of bodies were strewn about, and pieces of a corpse were scattered around like red confetti. A man with a shattered right arm was cursing in English, and a woman somewhere across the street was swearing in German. When the still disoriented CIA station chief glanced that way, she saw a baby— a large baby— holding a .38-caliber revolver and smoking a thin black cigar. For one moment Diane McGhee thought she was in the middle of a Fellini movie, but decided that there was too much gore.
“It looks like World War Three,” she said as Merlin ripped loose the tape binding her ankles. She tottered back a step and Merlin grabbed her. She’d almost tripped over the remains of Karla Lange, and in this state of mind such an accident might upset her.
She saw several men—all wearing headsets and body armor and automatic weapons—walk slowly to Merlin. One of them was tall and black, and he spoke first.
“You want us to take the house, Merl?”
“It’s probably booby-trapped. Leave it for the BND demolition crew. Should be along soon.”
Allison nodded, then listened to the voice in his headset. “Shooters want to know if they can climb down,” he reported.
“Not yet. Tell them to cover the windows till the cops arrive…What’s the score?”
“Budge has a broken arm and Luther caught one in the abdomen. The armor took the impact, but he feels terrible. May toss his cookies.”
“That’s a fifty-mark fine. Oh, Di, I’d like you to meet Mr. Allison. He’s one of the people who risked their asses to blast you free. And this is Fraulein Cassel.”
“Who’s one of the women you’ve been shacking up with recently,” Ms. McGhee jeered.
“Up yours, lady,” Freddy Cassel countered jauntily as she strode off to find McAlester.
“Freddy’s with the BND, honey,” Merlin said, “and she’s been looking up your skirt at Amerika Haus for the past two yea
rs.”
The black woman winced.
“Good agent,” Merlin continued. “Pretty fair with a shotgun. Just blew away Willi Lietzen.”
She nodded, heard the horns of what had to be several police cars. “Looks like a battlefield,” she said.
“Crash Dive. You wanted to know. This was Crash Dive,” he replied with a sweeping gesture.
“A slaughter.”
“I didn’t shoot any of these people,” Merlin said truthfully as he lit a cigar. “I didn’t do this.”
Kammler was still alive. He’d been hurt when the bazooka demolished his car, but he wasn’t dead. He rolled out from beneath a parked Mercedes, pistol in hand—and Merlin shot him four times with the Uzi.
“That I did,” Merlin admitted.
The flames flickering in the rocket-wrecked BMW reached the gas tank, and it exploded. Everyone recoiled at the noise, and Diane McGhee saw—for the first time—the corpse of plain dead Karla Lange only ten inches from her feet.
“Take it easy, honey. It’s all over now,” Merlin soothed.
Then—for some reason—the head of the Berlin station of the Central Intelligence Agency began to cry.
36
Seven police cars.
The first man out of the first car was the same sergeant Merlin had met at Amerika Haus. He surveyed the carnage, shook his head.
“I’m glad I’m not in the furniture business,” he declared.
“You wouldn’t like it. It’s seasonal. That’s the rest of the Lietzen-Stoller gang. Oh, there’s one stretched out behind number fifty-three, and Willi Lietzen’s on top of a Porsche up there.”
“Dead?”
Merlin nodded. Allison walked up to “borrow” another cigar, and the sergeant eyed his headset and other combat gear.
“Furniture salesman?”
“No, sarge. He’s a musician.”
The sergeant looked around, saw the others in similar outfits.
“What the hell was this—a concert? Lieber Gott— it looks like Vietnam.”
